


Should You Choose to Accept It

by significantowl



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Established Relationship, Hand porn, M/M, Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson at Columbia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9136924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: Matt’s lips quirk as he complies, like he’s just humoring Foggy, but the instant Foggy sandwiches one frosty hand between his own toasty ones, a soft little sigh slips out. And Foggy goes to work, letting the heat from his left palm bleed up into Matt’s while using his other hand to give Matt’s fingers the royal treatment, starting with the knuckle of his index finger and making his way down, joint by joint, gently massaging and warming every inch of skin.[For the prompt: I'd love to see something with Matt having really sensitive hands...and Foggy shamelessly enjoying the fact that he does.Good ol' fashioned hand porn!]





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [offensiveagentpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/offensiveagentpie/gifts).



> Happy holidays, Offensiveagentpie! I hope you enjoy this treat! I couldn't get my mind off your prompt ♥

This particular coffee shop is off the beaten path, tucked out on the fringes of campus, but that means it's a little less crowded than some of the others. A little less collegiate panic and desperation in the air to taint Foggy's mocha with whip.

Matt likes it too, even if all he ever gets is a straight up medium roast with one cream, one sugar, and no whip to be tainted. Foggy's settled at a table by the window when he sees Matt making his way down the street, bundled up to his ears against the cold outside with a thick burgundy scarf wound around his neck.

When the bell at the door jingles, Foggy stands. “Matt! Got our table, man.” It’s one of their usuals, so he doesn’t bother to count it off. Matt turns, nods, and taps his way over.

“Hey, Fog,” Matt says, touching the table. He unshoulders his laptop. “Need a refill?”

Another great thing about this place: free top-offs with the house brew. But Foggy’s good for now, so after a fairly short wait on line (remarkably short, really, by New York standards), Matt’s back with just his own cup. 

Matt’s disgustingly well-groomed for someone who had an eight-thirty class this morning. Oh, his stubble is definitely stubbly, but his hair is flattened and tamed in a way that suggests _freshly showered_. Even after several minutes inside, his skin is still showing the cold; pink ears, pink cheeks, pink nose. It’s stupidly attractive, and Foggy’s saying “Incoming,” and brushing his lips over one of those gorgeous prickly cheeks before Matt can get in his first sip of coffee.

“Well, hi there,” Matt says. There’s a smile in his voice that Foggy can’t quite see on his face because he’s hovering in range, waiting for - there it is, reciprocation, cold chapped lips landing on Foggy’s jaw.

Then Foggy’s settling back down in his seat, and Matt’s lifting his cup in both hands, and -

That is not an attractive shade of pink. That, particularly around the knuckles, is a bitter shade of red.

“What happened to your gloves, Matt?”

“Oh.” Matt’s mouth twists. After setting his cup on the table, he dives into a coat pocket and pulls out a sad, sodden excuse for cold weather gear. “Fell out of my pocket at the ATM.”

One not-so-great thing about this coffee place: cash only.

“And into some of New York’s finest slush, apparently. Matt. I’m wearing a worried face.”

Matt isn’t. Matt is casually sipping at his coffee. “I can feel all my fingers. They’re not even tingling. Just cold.”

“Mission accepted,” Foggy says, reaching out. He bumps gently against Matt's knuckles. “Hand one over.”

Matt’s lips quirk as he complies, like he’s just humoring Foggy, but the instant Foggy sandwiches one frosty hand between his own toasty ones, a soft little sigh slips out. And Foggy goes to _work_ , letting the heat from his left palm bleed up into Matt’s while using his other hand to give Matt’s fingers the royal treatment, starting with the knuckle of his index finger and making his way down, joint by joint, gently massaging and warming every inch of skin. 

He knows he's doing good work, but Foggy isn't aware of just how many levels of _good_ he's hitting until he works his way down to the pinky, pauses for a sip of his mocha, and clocks a really good look at Matt's face.

He's still pink, but it's an entirely different shade, not limited to his nose and cheeks and ears, areas exposed to the elements; this is a warm thing, spreading further, right down to - or _up_ from - the hollow of his throat. 

“Ready to switch?” Foggy asks quietly.

Matt swallows, throat bobbing. “Yeah.”

Since he's been using it to cradle his coffee for a while, Matt's right hand is less ice cube- like than his left, but Foggy does his job just as thoroughly nonetheless. Matt's hand starts to tremble, a fine shiver beneath the pads of Foggy's fingers, and Foggy glances up and says Matt's name.

The nod he gets in return is a little shaky, but it's the go-ahead Foggy needs, and he keeps rubbing at Matt's strong fingers, letting the heel of his hand drag heavy over the back Matt's hand as he does, until there's not an inch of skin Foggy hasn't laid claim to and he's feeling a flush rising in his own throat, in his own cheeks.

“Is -” Foggy has to clear his throat. “Is that good?”

Matt nods. He’s leaning forward in his seat, the line of his back stiff. “Good. Could be - could be better.”

“You don't have another class after this, right?” A headshake. “So… wanna head back to the dorm?”

The way Matt’s fingers clench around Foggy’s makes him jump, the sudden, powerful, helplessly tight squeeze sending a shock of heat right through him. “Matt,” he says, a little breathless. “Matt. You should wear my gloves on the way back.”

“Sure. Yeah. Foggy. Why don’t.” Matt wets his lips, and his fingers tighten. “Why don’t you get them warm for me first.”

Foggy’s breath sticks in his throat. Matt's not always great at asking for things - Foggy's working on that - bedroom things are no exception, and however this may have started, it’s _definitely_ turning into a bedroom thing. Foggy suspects the only reason Matt let himself ask now is because he can turn into some sort of test, something to overcome.

Still. What Matt wants, Matt gets. Foggy pulls out his own gloves, dark brown leather on the outside, fleece on the inside, and slides his hands in; Matt’s hands hover on the table, just an inch or two away, until Foggy grasps them both, anchoring Matt with the weight of his hands until he can wrap him in heat for the long walk home.

[-]

When they make it back, Foggy cranks up the aging thermostat, then stands close to Matt, resting his fingertips on the ridgeline of Matt’s knuckles, standing out beneath the gloves. He speaks softly. “On or off?”

“ _Off,_ ” Matt says, low enough for a growl, and _shit_ that kicks against Foggy’s hindbrain _hard_. He’s on this. Starting with Matt’s right hand, he drags the first glove off slowly, curling his fingers around Matt’s wrist before tugging at the edge of the glove, working it off inch by inch. Matt shivers as the glove-warmed skin meets the still-cool air of their room, and when the glove’s completely gone, Foggy kisses first his palm, then the back of his hand, little parting gifts of warmth before moving on.

Parted lips. Hitching breath. Heat flooding stubbly cheeks. When Foggy looks up and sees the picture Matt makes, he suddenly needs to take his own deep breath, and he rubs at the back of Matt’s neck for a moment, giving himself time, willing his own hands steady.

Then it’s on to the next glove. Foggy wants to take it even slower, but a man can only do so much, and with Matt’s shoulders bowing inward, and his chest shuddering when he breathes, his resolve goes the way of the wind. After tossing the second glove in the vague direction of his desk, he folds Matt’s hands between his and ducks in for a kiss, which Matt turns dirty in an instant, biting at Foggy’s bottom lip and gasping into his mouth.

“Okay,” Foggy whispers, “okay.” He presses Matt’s hands against the button of his jeans, just above Matt’s prominent bulge. “Go ahead. Get those off, too.”

The moment Matt’s dick springs free, Foggy’s palming his own, and a second later he’s shedding his own jeans too. Then it’s something of a stripping frenzy, coats and scarves and sweaters flying in all directions, until Matt’s left in just a gray tee, Foggy’s just in his boxers, and there are dicks nudging insistently at stomachs during their next kiss.

“Hey Matt,” Foggy mumbles, somewhere into the corner of Matt’s mouth. “Got an idea.”

“I like it already.” Matt’s glasses are gone - Foggy hopes they ended up in a safe location - and his eyes are closed. There’s a drop of sweat at his temple. Foggy kisses it before putting his plan into motion: walking Matt over to Foggy’s bed, sitting him down on the edge, and - all right, this is less part of the plan and more an unavoidable deviation - pausing for a moment to admire the hard curve of his dick.

Then it’s a pillow on the floor for Foggy’s knees, a nudge to part Matt’s thighs, and the very real pleasure of taking those beautifully sensitive hands and arranging them exactly as he wants them on that truly lovely dick.

Foggy’s a little indecisive when it comes to that. He wants to get it right. In the end, it’s one hand curled snug around the base, one even lower, lightly cradling the balls, and Matt’s face already on the verge of breaking, his head dropped low on his neck, his eyes closed, his teeth pressed into his bottom lip.

“So here’s my idea,” Foggy says, dipping his head and pressing kisses to Matt’s fingers, warm against his flushed dick; to the meaty base of his thumb, nestled against his balls. “My mouth here,” he breathes out, a little gust of air that makes Matt shiver, “on your hands. Your hands doing whatever the hell they want. Still like it?”

“ _Shit_ yeah,” Matt says, gasping, and Foggy sucks his index finger into his mouth for that, pulling it in slowly, joint by joint, while Matt’s other fingers tighten convulsively and his dick jerks hard enough to bump Foggy’s nose.

“Mission accepted,” Foggy murmurs, letting Matt’s finger fall from his lips. Matt pumps his dick once with his full fist, a desperate, involuntary reaction that Foggy feels all the way down in his own. But then it’s on to the next finger, with a little lick to the calloused tip that makes Matt groan.

Two perfect hands, ten warm, strong, _needy_ fingers, and Foggy’s going to make sure Matt feels every one.


End file.
